outside the library. There is talk also of a couple of evergreen woodsfor the front of the house. With six gardens, two woods, and anornamental lake I shall be unbearable. In all the gardens of Englandpeople will be shooting themselves in disgust, and the herbaceousborders will flourish as never before. But that is for the future.To-day I write only of my three gardens. I would write of them atgreater length but that my daffodil garden is sending out anirresistible call. I go to sit on the staircase.

An Ordnance Map

Spring calls to us to be up and about. It shouts to us to standbareheaded upon hills and look down upon little woods and tiny redcottages, and away up to where the pines stand straight into the sky.Let the road, thin and white, wander on alone; we shall meet it again,and it shall lead us if it will to some comfortable inn; but now weare for the footpath and the stile--we are to stand in the fields andlisten to the skylark.

Must you stay and work in London? But you will have ten minutes tospare. Look, I have an ordnance map--let us take our walk upon that.

We will start, if you please, at Buckley Cross. That is the best ofwalking on the map; you may start where you like, and there are notrains to catch. Our road goes north through the village--shall westop a moment to buy an apple or two? Apples go well in the open air;we shall sit upon a gate presently and eat them before we light ourpipes and join the road again. A pound, if you will--and now withbulging pockets for the north.

Over Buckley Common. You see by the dotted lines that it is anunfenced road, as, indeed, it should be over gorse and heather. A mileof it, and then it branches into two. Let us take this lane on theleft; the way seems more wooded to the west.

By now we should be passing Buckley Grove. Perhaps it is for sale. Ifso, we might stop for a minute or two and buy it. We can work out howmany acres it is, because it is about three-quarters of an inch eachway, and if we could only remember how many acres went to a squaremile--well, anyhow, it is a good-sized place. But three miles from astation, you say? Ah yes, but look at that little mark there justround the corner. Do you know what _that_ stands for? A wind pump. Howjolly to have one at your very door. "Shall we go and look at thewind pump?" you would say casually to your guests.

Let us leave the road. Do you see those dots going off to the right?That is a footpath. I have an idea that that will take us to theskylark. They do not mark skylarks on the map--I cannot say why--butsomething tells me that about a mile farther on, where the dots beginto bend.... Ah, do you hear? Up and up and up he goes into the blue,fainter and fainter falls the music. He calls to us to follow him tothe clean morning of the world, whose magic light has shone for us inour dreams so long, yet ever eluded us waking. Bathed in that light,Youth is not so young as we, nor Beauty more beautiful; in that lightHappiness is ours at last, for Endeavour shall have its perfectfulfilment, a fulfilment without regret....

Yes, let us have an apple.

Our path seems to end suddenly here. We shall have to go through thisfarm. All the dogs barking, all the fowls cluttering, all the lambsgalloping--what a jolly, friendly commotion we've made! But we can getinto the road again this way. Indeed, we must get into the road soonbecause it is hungry work out in the air, and two inches to thenorth-west is written a word full of meaning--the most purposeful wordthat can be written upon a map. "Inn," So now for a steady climb. Wehave dropped down to "200" by the farmhouse, and the inn is marked"500." But it is only two miles--well, barely that. Come along.

What shall we have? Ought it not to be bread and cheese and beer? Butif you will excuse me, I would rather not have beer. I know that itsounds well to ask for it--as far as that goes, I will ask for itwillingly--but I have never been able to drink it in any comfort. Ithink I shall have a gin and ginger. That also sounds well. Moreimportant still, it drinks well; in fact, the only thing which I don'tlike about it is the gin. "Oh, good morning. We want some bread andcheese, please, and one pint of beer, and a gin and ginger.And--er--you might leave out the gin." Yes, of course, I could haveasked straight off for a plain ginger beer, but that sounds so verymild. My way I use the word "gin" twice. Let us be dashing on thisbrave day.

After lunch a pipe, while we consider where to go next.

It is anywhere you like, you know. To the north there is GreymoorWood, and we pass a windmill; and to the east there is the littlevillage of Colesford which has a church without a steeple; and to thewest we go quite near another wind pump; and to the south--well, weshould have to cross the line pretty soon. That brings us into touchwith civilization; we do not want that just yet. So the north againlet it be....

This is Greymoor Wood. Yes; there is a footpath marked right throughit, but footpaths are hard to see beneath such a carpet of deadleaves. I dare say we shall lose ourselves. One false step and we areoff the line of dots. There you are, there's a dot missing. We havelost the track. Now we must get out as best we can.

Do you know the way of telling the north by the sun? You turn the hourhand of your watch to the sun, and half-way between that and the XIIis the south. Or else you turn the XII to the sun and take half-waybetween that and the hour hand. Anyhow you do find the southeventually after one or two experiments, and having discovered thesouth it is easy enough to locate the north. With your permission thenwe will push due north through Greymoor Wood.

We are through and on the road, but it is getting late. I et us hurryon. It would be tempting to wander down to that stream and follow itsbanks for a little; it would be pleasant to turn into that"unmetalled, unfenced" road--ah, doesn't one know those roads?--andlet it carry us to the village of Milden, rich in both telegraphoffice and steeple. There is also, no more than two miles from wherewe stand, a contour of 600 ft.--shall we make for the view at the topof that? But no, perhaps you are right. We had best be getting homenow. It is growing chilly; the sun has gone in; if we lost ourselvesagain, we could never find the north. Let us make for the neareststation. Widdington, isn't it? Three miles away....

There! Now we're home again. And must you really get on with yourwork? Well, but it has been a jolly day, hasn't it?

The Lord Mayor

There is a story of a boy who was asked to name ten animals whichinhabit the polar regions. After a little thought he answered, "Sixpenguins and four seals." In the same way I suspect that, if you wereasked to give the names of any three Lord Mayors of London, you wouldsay, "Dick Whittington, and--er--Dick Whittington, and ofcourse--er--Dick Whittington," knowing that he held that high officethree times, and being quite unable to think of anybody else. This iswhere I have the advantage of you. In my youth there was a joke whichwent like this: "Why does the Lord Mayor like pepper? Because withouthis K.N., he'd be ill." I have an unfortunate habit of rememberingeven the worst joke, and so I can tell you, all these years after,that there was once a Lord Mayor called Knill. It is because I knowthe names of four Lord Mayors that I can write with such authorityupon the subject.

To be a successful Lord Mayor demands years of training. Fortunately,the aspiring apprentice has time for preparation. From the moment whenhe is first elected a member of the Worshipful Company of Linendrapershe can see it coming. He can say with confidence that in 1944--or '43,if old Sir Joshua has his stroke next year, as seems probable--he willbecome the first citizen of London; which gives him twenty-four yearsin which to acquire the manner. It would be more interesting if thiswere not so; it would be more interesting to you and me if there weresomething of a struggle each year for the Lord Mayorality, so that wecould put our money on our respective fancies. If, towards the end ofOctober, we could read the Haberdashers' nominee had been for astripped gallop on Hackney Downs and had pulled up sweating badly; ifthe Mayor could send a late wire from Aldgate to tell us that thecandidate from the Drysalters' stable was refusing his turtle soup; ifwe could all try our luck at spotting the winner for November 9, thenit is possible that the name of the new Lord Mayor might be asfamiliar in our mouths as that of this year's Derby favourite. As itis, there is no excitement at all about the business. We are toldcasually in a corner of the paper that Sir Tuttlebury Tupkins is to bethe next Lord Mayor, and we gather that it was inevitable. The nameconveys nothing to us, the face is the habitual face. He duly becomesLord Mayor and loses his identity. We can still only think of DickWhittington.

One cannot help wondering if it is worth it. He has his crowded yearof glorious life, but it is a year without a name. He is neverhimself, he is just the Lord Mayor. He meets all the great people ofthe day, soldiers, sailors, statesmen, even artists, but they wouldnever recognize him again. He cannot say that he knows them, eventhough he has given them the freedom of the City or a jewelled sword.He can do nothing to make his year of office memorable; nothing thatis, which his predecessor did not do before, or his successor will notdo again. If he raises a Mansion House Fund for the survivors of aflood, his predecessor had an earthquake, and his successor is safefor a famine. And nobody will remember whether it was in this year orin Sir Joshua Potts' that the record was beaten.

For this one year of anonymous greatness the aspiring Lord Mayor hasto sacrifice his whole personality. He is to be the first citizen ofLondon, but he must be very careful that London has never heard of himbefore. He has to live the life of a hermit, resolute neither to knownor to be known. For a year he shakes hands mechanically, but in theyears before and the years afterwards, nobody, I imagine, has eversmacked him on the back. Indeed, it is doubtful if anybody has evenseen him, so remote is his life from ours. He was dedicated to thisfrom birth, or anyhow from the moment when he was first elected amember of the Worshipful Company of Linendrapers, and he has beenpreparing that wooden expression ever since.

It is because he has had to spend so many years out of the world thata City Remembrancer is provided for him. The City Remembrancer standsat his elbow when he receives his guests and tells him who they are.Without this aid, how should he know? Perhaps it is Mr. Thomas Hardywho is arriving. "Mr. Thomas Hardy," says the gentleman with thevoice, and the Lord Mayor holds out his hand.

"I am very glad," he says, "to welcome such a verywell-known--h'm--such a distinguished--er----"

"Writer," says the City Remembrancer behind the hack of his hand.

"Such a distinguished writer. The author of so many famous biog----"

"Novels," breathes the City Remembrancer, gazing up at the ceiling.

"So many famous novels," continues the Lord Mayor quite undisturbed,for he is used to it by this time. "The author of _East Lynne_----"

The City Remembrancer coughs and walks across to the other side of theLord Mayor, murmuring _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ to the back of theMayoral head as he goes. The Lord Mayor then repeats that he isdelighted to welcome the author of _Death and the Door-bells_ to theCity, and holds out his hand to Mr. John Sargent.

"The painter," says the City Remembrancer, his lips, from longpractice, hardly moving.

In the sanctity of the home that evening, while removing his chains ofoffice, the Lord Mayor (we may suppose) tells his sleepy wife what aninteresting day he has had, and how Mr. Thomas Sargent, the famousstatesman, and Mr. John Hardy, the sculptor, both came to lunch.

And all the time the year is creeping on. Another day gone. Anotherday nearer to that fatal November 8.... And here, inevitably, isNovember 8, and by to-morrow he will be that most pathetic of allliving creatures, an ex-Lord Mayor of London. Where do they live, theex-Lord Mayors? They must have a colony of their own somewhere, aGarden City in which they can live together as equals. Probably theyhave some arrangement by which they take it in turns to bereminiscent; Sir Tuttlebury Tupkins has "and Wednesdays" on hiscard, and Sir Joshua Potts receives on "3rd Mondays"; and the otherLord Mayors gather round and listen, nodding their heads. On theirbirthdays they give each other gold caskets, and every November 10they march in a body to the station to welcome the new arrival. Poorfellow, the tears are streaming down his cheeks, and his paunch isshaken with sobs, but there is a hot bowl of turtle soup waiting forhim at Lady Tupkins' house, The Mansion Cottage, and he will soon feelmore comfortable. He has been allotted the "4th Fridays," and it ishoped that by Christmas he will have settled down quite happily atIchabod Lodge.

The Holiday Problem

The time for a summer holiday is May, June. July, August, andSeptember--with, perhaps a fortnight in October if the weather holdsup. But it is difficult to cram all this into the few short weeksallowed to most of us. We are faced accordingly with the business ofsingling out one month from the others--a business invidious enough toa lover of the country, but still more so to one who loves London aswell. The question for him is not only which month is most wonderfulby the sea, but also which month is most tolerable out of town.

I would wash my hands of London in May and come back brown fromcricket and golf and sailing in September with willingness. Alas I itis impossible. But if I pick out July as the month for the open-airlife, I begin immediately to think of the superiority of July overJune as a month to spend in London. Not but what June is a delightfulmonth in town, and May and August for that matter. In May, forinstance----

Let us go into this question. May, of course, is hopeless for aholiday. One must be near one's tailor in May to see about one'ssummer clothes. Choosing a flannel suit in May is one of the momentsof one's life--only equalled by certain other great moments at thehosier's and hatter's. "Ne'er cast a clout till May be out" says aparticularly idiotic saw, but as you have already disregarded it bycasting your fur coat, you may as well go through with the businessnow. Socks; I ask you to think of summer socks. Have you ordered yourhalf-hose yet? No. Then how can you go away for your holiday?

Again, taxicabs pull down their shutters in May, and you are able tosee and be seen as you drive through London. Never forget when youdrive in a taxi that you own the car absolutely as long as the clockis ticking; that you are a motorist, a fit member for the RoyalAutomobile Club; that the driver is your chauffeur to obey yourorders; and, best of all, that, May being here, you can put your feetupon the seat opposite in the sight of everybody. Will you miss theglory? In June and July it will have lost something. Pay your fiveshillings in May and expand, live; pay your five pounds if you likeand drive all down the Cromwell Road. Don't bury yourself inDevonshire.

The long light evenings of June in London! The dances, the dinners inthe warm nights of June! The window-boxes in the squares, the prettypeople in the parks; are we going to leave them? There is so muchgoing on. We may not be in it, but we must be in London to feel thatwe are helping. They also serve who only stand and stare. Besides--Iput it to you--strawberries are ripe in June. You will never getenough in Cumberland or wherever you are. Not good ones; not theshilling-a-seed kind.

Is it wise to go away in July? What about the Varsity match andGentlemen _v._ Players? You must be at Lord's for those. Yes; July isthe month for Lord's. Drive there, I beg you, in a hansom, if indeedthere is still one left. A taxi by all means in May or when you are ina hurry, but a day at Lord's must be taken deliberately. Drive thereat your leisure; breathe deeply. Do not he afraid of taking your seatbefore play begins--you can buy a _Sportsman_ on the ground and readhow Vallingwick nearly beat Upper Finchley. It is all part of thegreat game, and if you are to enjoy your day truly, then you must gowith this feeling in the back of your mind--that you ought really tobe working. That is the right condiment for a cricket match.

Yes; we must be near St. John's Wood in July, but what about August?Everybody, you say, goes away in August; but is not that rather areason for staying? I don't bother to point out that the country willbe crowded, only that London will be so pleasantly empty. In Augustand September you can wander about in your oldest clothes and nobodywill mind. You can get a seat for any play without difficulty--indeed,without paying, if you know the way. It is a rare time for seeing theold churches of the City or for exploring the South Kensington Museum.London is not London in August and September; it is a jolly old townthat you have never seen before. You can dine at the Savoy in yourshirt sleeves--well, nearly. I mean, that gives you the idea. And,best of all, your friends will all be enjoying themselves in thecountry, and they will ask you down for week-ends. Robinson, who ishaving a cricket week for his schoolboy sons, and Smith, who has hireda yacht, will be glad to see you from Friday to Tuesday. If you hadgone to Switzerland for the month, you couldn't have accepted theirkind invitations. "How I wish," you would have said as you paid theextra centimes on their letters, "how I wish I had taken my holidayin June." On the other hand, in June----

Well, you see how difficult it is for you. Of course, I don't reallymind what you do. For myself I have almost decided to have a week ineach month. The advantage of this is that I shall go away four timesinstead of once. There is no joy in the world to equal that ofstrolling after a London porter who is looking for an empty smoker inwhich to put your golf clubs. To do it four times, each time with theknowledge of a week's holiday ahead, is almost more than man deserves.True that by this means I shall also come back four times instead ofonce, but to a lover of London that is no great matter. Indeed, I likeit so.

And another advantage is that I can take five weeks in this way whiledeluding my conscience into thinking that I am only taking four. Aholiday taken in a lump is taken and over. Taken in weeks, with odddays at each end of the weeks, it always leaves a margin for error. Ishall take care that the error is on the right side. And if anybodygrumbles, "Why, you're always going away," I shall answer withdignity, "Confound it! I'm always coming back."

The Burlington Arcade

It is the fashion, I understand, to be late for dinner, but punctualfor lunch. What the perfect gentleman does when he accepts aninvitation to breakfast I do not know. Possibly he has to be early.But for lunch the guests should arrive at the very stroke of theappointed hour, even though it leads to a certain congestion on themat.

My engagement was for one-thirty, and for a little while my reputationseemed to be in jeopardy. Two circumstances contributed to this. Thefirst one was the ever-present difficulty in these busy days ofsynchronizing an arrival. A prudent man allows himself time for beingpushed off the first half-dozen omnibuses and trusts to surging upwith the seventh wave. I was so unlucky as to cleave my way on to thefirst 'bus of all, with the result that when I descended from it I wasa good ten minutes early. Well, that was bad enough. But, just as Iwas approaching the door, I realized that my calculations had beenmade for a one o'clock lunch. It was now ten to one; I had fortyminutes in hand.

It is very difficult to know what to do with forty minutes in themiddle of Piccadilly, particularly when it is raining. Until a yearago I had had a club there, and I had actually resigned from it (howlittle one foresees the future!) on the plea that I never had occasionto use it. I felt that I would cheerfully have paid the subscriptionfor the rest of my life in order to have had the loan of its roof atthat moment. My new club--like the National Gallery and the BritishMuseum, those refuges for the wet Londoner--was too far away. TheAcademy had not yet opened.

And then a sudden inspiration drew me into the Burlington Arcade. Theysay that the churches of London are ill-attended nowadays, but atleast St. James, Piccadilly, can have no cause for complaint, for Isuppose that the merchants of the Arcade, and all those dependent onthem, repair thither twice weekly to pray for wet weather. TheBurlington Arcade is indeed a beautiful place on a wet day. One canmove leisurely from window to window, passing from silk pyjamas tobead necklaces and from bead necklaces back to silk pyjamas again; onecan look for a break in the weather from either the north or thesouth; and at the south end there is a clock conveniently placed forthose who have a watch waiting its turn at the repairer's and aluncheon engagement in forty minutes.

For a long time I hesitated between a bead necklace and a pair ofpyjamas. A few coloured stones on a chain were introduced to theumbrella-less onlooker as "The Latest Fashion," followed by theannouncement, superfluous in the circumstances, that it was "VeryStylish." It came as a shock to read further that one could be in thefashion for so little a sum as six shillings. There were othernecklaces at the same price but of entirely different design, whichwere equally "Stylish," and of a fashion no less up to date. In thisthe merchant seemed to me to have made a mistake; for the whole gloryof wearing "The Latest Fashion" is the realization that the otherwoman has just missed it by a bead or two. A fashion must beexclusive. St. James, Piccadilly, is all very well, but one has alsoto consider how to draw the umbrella-less within after one has gottheir noses to the shop window.

I passed on to the pyjamas, which seemed to be mostly in regimentalcolours. This war came upon us too suddenly, so that most of us rushedinto the army without a proper consideration of essentials. I doubt ifanyone who enlisted in the early days stopped to ask himself whetherthe regimental colours would suit him. It will be different in thenext war. If anybody joins the infantry at all (which is doubtful), hewill at least join a regiment whose pyjamas may be worn withself-respect in the happy peace days.

There are objections to turning up to lunch (however warmly invited)with a pair of pyjamas under the arm. It looks as though you mightstay too long. I moved on to another row of bead necklaces. Theyoffered themselves for two shillings, and all that the owner couldfind to say for them was that they were "Quite New." If he meantthat nobody had ever worn such a necklace before, he was probablyright, but I feel that he could have done better for them than this,and that, "As supplied to the Queen of Denmark," or something of thesort, would have justified an increase to two and threepence.

By this time nearly everybody was lunching except myself, and my clocksaid one twenty-five. If I were to arrive with that exact punctualityupon which I so credit myself, I must buy my bead necklace upon someother day. I said good-bye to the Burlington Arcade, and stepped outof it with the air of a man who has done a successful morning'sshopping. A clock in the hall was striking one-thirty as I entered.Then I remembered. It was Tuesday's lunch which was to be atone-thirty. To-day's was at one o'clock... However, I had discoveredthe Burlington Arcade.

State Lotteries

The popular argument against the State Lottery is an assertion that itwill encourage the gambling spirit. The popular argument in favour ofthe State Lottery is an assertion that it is hypocritical to say thatit will encourage the gambling spirit, because the gambling spirit isalready amongst us. Having listened to a good deal of this sort ofargument on both sides, I thought it would be well to look up the word"gamble" in my dictionary. I found it next to "gamboge," and I cannow tell you all about it.

To gamble, says my dictionary, is "to play for money in games ofskill or chance," and it adds the information that the word isderived from the Anglo-Saxon _gamen_, which means "a game". Now, tome this definition is particularly interesting, because it justifiesall that I have been thinking about the gambling spirit in connexionwith Premium Bonds. I am against Premium Bonds, but not for thepopular reason. I am against them because (as it seems to me) there isso very little of the gamble about them. And now that I have looked up"gamble" in the dictionary, I see that I was right. The "chance"element in a state lottery is obvious enough, but the "game" elementis entirely absent. It is nothing so harmless and so human as thegambling spirit which Premium Bonds would encourage.

We play for money in games of skill or chance--bridge, for instance.But it isn't only of the money we are thinking. We get pleasure out ofthe game. Probably we prefer it to a game of greater chance, such as_vingt-et-un_. But even at _vingt-et-un_ or baccarat there issomething more than chance which is taking a hand in the game; notskill, perhaps, but at least personality. If you are only throwingdice, you are engaged in a personal struggle with another man, and youare directing the struggle to this extent, that you can call the valueof the stakes, and decide whether to go on or to stop. And is thereany man who, having made a fortune at Monte Carlo, will admit that heowes it entirely to chance? Will he not rather attribute it to hiswonderful system, or if not to that, at any rate to his wonderfulnerve, his perseverance, or his recklessness?

The "game" element, then, comes into all these forms of gambling,and still more strongly does it pervade that most common form ofgambling, betting on horses. I do not suggest that the street-cornerboy who puts a shilling both ways on Bronchitis knows anythingwhatever about horses, but at least he thinks he does; and if he winsfive shillings on that happy afternoon when Bronchitis proves himselfto be the 2.30 winner, his pleasure will not be solely in the money.The thought that he is such a skilful follower of form, that he hassomething of the national eye for a horse, will give him as muchpleasure as can be extracted from the five shillings itself.

This, then, is the gambling spirit. It has its dangers, certainly, hutit is not entirely an evil spirit. It is possible that the Stateshould not encourage it, but it is not called upon to exorcise it withbell, and book, and candle. I am not sure that I should favour a Stategamble, but my arguments against it would be much the same as myarguments against State cricket or the solemn official endowment andrecognition of any other jolly game. However, I need not trouble youwith those arguments now, for nothing so harmless as a State gamblehas ever been suggested. Instead, we have from time to time a Statelottery offered to us, and that is a very different proposition.

For in a State lottery--with daily prizes of L50,000--the game(or gambling) element does not exist. Buy your L100 bond, as athousand placards will urge you to do, and you simply take part in acold-blooded attempt to acquire money without working for it. You cantake no personal interest whatever in the manner of acquiring it.Somebody turns a handle, and perhaps your number comes out. Moreprobably it doesn't. If it doesn't, you can call yourself a fool forhaving thrown away your savings; if it does--well, you have got themoney. May you be happy with it! But you have considerably less onwhich to congratulate yourself than had the street-corner boy whobacked Bronchitis. He had an eye for a horse. Probably you hadn't evenan eye for a row of figures.

Moreover, the State would be giving its official approval to theunearned fortune. In these days, when the worker is asking for a weekof so many less hours and so many more shillings, the State wouldanswer: "I can show you a better way than that. What do you say to nowork at all, and L20 a week for it?" At a time when the one cryis "Production!" the State adds (behind its hand), "Buy a PremiumBond, and let the other man produce for you." After all these yearsin which we have been slowly progressing towards the idea of a moreequitable distribution of wealth, the Government would show us thereally equitable way; it would collect the savings of the many, andre-distribute them among the few. Instead of a million ten-poundcitizens, we should have a thousand ten-thousand-pounders and 999,000with nothing. That would be the official way of making the countryhappy and contented. But, in fact, our social and politicalcontroversies are not kept alive by such arguments as these, nor bythe answers which can legitimately be made to such arguments. The caseof the average man in favour of State lotteries is, quite simply, thathe does not like Dr. Clifford. The case of the average man againstState lotteries is equally simple; he cannot bear to be on the sameside as Mr. Bottomley.

The Record Lie

I have just seen it quoted again. Yes, it appears solemnly in print,even now, at the end of the greatest war in history. _Si vis pacem,para bellum._ And the writer goes on to say that the League of Nationsis all very well, but unfortunately we are "not angels." Dear, dear!

Being separated for the moment from my book of quotations, I cannotsay who was the Roman thinker who first gave this brilliant paradox tothe world, but I imagine him a fat, easy-going gentleman, whooccasionally threw off good things after dinner. He never thought verymuch of _Si vis pacem, para bellum;_ it was not one of his best; butit seemed to please some of his political friends, one of whom askedif he might use it in his next speech in the Senate. Our fat gentlemansaid: "Certainly, if you like," and added, with unusual frankness:"I don't quite know what it means." But the other did not think thatthat would matter very much. So he quoted it, and it had aconsiderable vogue... and by and by they returned to the place fromwhich they had come, leaving behind them the record of the ages, thelie which has caused more suffering than anything the Devil could haveinvented for himself. Two thousand years from now people will still bequoting it, and killing each other on the strength of it. Or perhaps Iam wrong. Perhaps two thousand years from now, if the English languageis sufficiently dead by then, the world will have some casual paradoxof Bernard Shaw's or Oscar Wilde's on its lips, passing it reverentlyfrom mouth to mouth as if it were Holy Writ, and dropping bombs onMars to show that they know what it means. For a quotation is a handything to have about, saving one the trouble of thinking for oneself,always a laborious business.

_Si vis pacem, para bellum._ Yes, it sounds well. It has a conclusivering about it, particularly if the speaker stops there for a momentand drinks a glass of water. "If you want peace, prepare for war,"is not quite so convincing; that might have been his own idea, evolvedwhile running after a motor-bus in the morning; we should not be soready to accept it as Gospel. But _Si vis pacem_----! It is almostblasphemous to doubt it.

Suppose for a moment that it is true. Well, but this certainly istrue: _Si vis bellum, para bellum._ So it follows that preparation forwar means nothing; it does not necessarily mean that you want war, itdoes not necessarily mean that you want peace; it is an action whichis as likely to have been inspired by an evil motive as by a goodmotive. When a gentleman with a van calls for your furniture you havemeans of ascertaining whether he is the furniture-remover whom youordered or the burglar whom you didn't order, but there is no way ofdiscovering which of two Latin tags is inspiring a nation's armaments._Si vis pacem, para bellum_--it is a delightful excuse. Germany wasusing it up to the last moment.

However, I can produce a third tag in the same language, which isworth consideration. _Si vis amare bellum, para bellum_--said byQuintus Balbus the Younger five minutes before he was called apro-Carthaginian. There seems to be something in it. I have been toldby women that it is great fun putting on a new frock, but I understandthat they like going out in it afterwards. After years in the schoolsa painter does want to show the public what he has learnt. Soldierswho have given their lives to preparing for war may be different; theymay be quite content to play about at manoeuvres and answerexamination papers. I learnt my golf (such as it is) by driving into anet. Perhaps, if I had had the soldier's temperament, I should stillbe driving into a net quite happily. On the other hand, soldiers maybe just like other people, and having prepared for a thing may want todo it.

No; it is a pity, but Universal Peace will hardly come as the resultof universal preparedness for war, as these dear people seem to hope.It will only come as the result of a universal feeling that war is themost babyish and laughably idiotic thing that this poor world hasevolved. Our writer says sadly that there is no hope of doing withoutarmies--we are not angels. It is not a question of "not beingangels," it is a question of not being childish lunatics. Possiblythere is no hope of this either, but I think we might make an effort.

For opinions do spread, if one holds them firmly oneself and is notafraid of confessing them. A _si-vis-pacem_ gentleman said to me once,with a sneer: "How are you going to do it? Speeches and pamphlets?"Well, that was how Christianity got about, even though Paul's lettersdid not appear in a daily paper with a circulation of a million and atelegraphic service to every part of the world.

But perhaps Christianity is an unfortunate example to give in anargument about war; one begins to ask oneself if Christianity hasspread as much as one thought. There are dear people, of course, towhom it has been revealed in the night that God is really much moreinterested in nations than in persons; it is not your soul or my soulthat He is concerned about, but the British Empire's. Germany Hedislikes (although the Germans were under a silly misapprehensionabout this once), and though the Japanese do not worship Him, yet theyare such active little fellows, not to say Allies of England, thatthey too are under His special protection. And when He deprecatedlying and stealing and murder and bearing false witness, and all thosethings, He meant that if they were done in a really wholesale way--bynations, not by individuals--then it did not matter; for He canforgive a nation anything, having so much more interest in it. All ofwhich may be true, but it is not Christianity.

However, as our writer says, "we are not angels," and apparently hethinks that it would be rather wicked of us to try to be. Perhaps heis right.

Wedding Bells

Champagne is often pleasant at lunch, it is always delightful atdinner, and it is an absolute necessity, if one is to talk freelyabout oneself afterwards, at a dance supper. But champagne for tea ishorrible. Perhaps this is why a wedding always finds me melancholynext morning. "She has married the wrong man," I say to myself. "Iwonder if it is too late to tell her."

The trouble of answering the invitation and of thinking of somethingto give more original than a toast rack should, one feels, have itscompensations. From each wedding that I attend I expect an afternoon'senjoyment in return for my egg stand. For one thing I have my bestclothes on. Few people have seen me in them (and these few won'tbelieve it), so that from the very beginning the day has a certainfreshness. It is not an ordinary day. It starts with this advantage,that in my best clothes I am not difficult to please. The world smilesupon me.

Once I am in church, however, my calm begins to leave me. As timewears on, and the organist invents more and more tunes, I tremble lestthe bride has forgotten the day. The choir is waiting for her; thebridegroom is waiting for her. I--I also--wait. What if she haschanged her mind at the last minute? But no. The organist has sailedinto his set piece; the choir advances; follows the bride looking solonely that I long to comfort her and remind her of my egg stand; and,last of all, the pretty bridesmaids. The clergyman begins his drone.

You would think that, reassured by the presence of the bride, I couldbe happy now. But there is still much to bother me. The bridegroom isshowing signs of having forgotten his part, the bride can't get herglove off, one of the bridesmaids is treading on my hat. Worse thanall this, there is a painful want of unanimity among the congregationas to when we stand up and when we sit down. Sometimes I am alone andsitting when everybody else is standing, and that is easy to bear; butsometimes I find myself standing when everybody else is sitting, andthat is very hard.

They have gone to the vestry. The choir sings an anthem to while awaythe kissing-time, and, right or wrong, I am sitting down, comfortingmy poor hat. There was a time when I, too, used to go into the vestry;when I was something of an authority on weddings, and would attendweekly in some minor official capacity. Any odd jobs that were goingseemed to devolve on me. If somebody was wanted suddenly to sign theregister, or kiss the bride's mother, or wind up the going-away car,it used to be taken for granted that I was the man to do it. I wore awhite flower in my button-hole to show that I was available. I served,I may say, in an entirely honorary capacity, except in so far as I wasexpected to give the happy pair a slightly larger present than theothers. One day I happened to suggest to an intending groom that hehad other friends more ornamental, and therefore more suitable forthis sort of work, than I; to which he replied that they were allmarried, and that etiquette demanded a bachelor for the business. Ofcourse, as soon as I heard this I got married too.

Here they come. "Doesn't she look sweet?" We hurry after them andrush for the carriages. I am only a friend of the bridegroom's;perhaps I had better walk.

It must be very easy to be a guest at a wedding reception, where eachof the two clans takes it for granted that all the extraordinarystrangers belong to the other clan. Indeed, nobody with one good suit,and a stomach for champagne and sandwiches, need starve in London. Heor she can wander safely in wherever a red carpet beckons. I suppose Imust put in an appearance at this reception, but if I happen to passanother piece of carpet on the way to the house, and the people goingin seem more attractive than our lot, I shall be tempted to join them.

This is, perhaps, the worst part of the ceremony, this three hundredyards or so from the hymn-sheets to the champagne. All London is nowgazing at my old top-hat. When the war went on and on and on, and itseemed as though it were going on for ever, I looked back on peacemuch as those old retired warriors at the end of last century lookedback on their happy Crimean days; and in the same spirit as that inwhich they hung their swords over the baronial fireplace, I decided tosuspend my old top-hat above the mantel-piece in the drawing-room. Inthe years to come I would take my grandchildren on my knee and tellthem stories of the old days when grandfather was a civilian, ofdesperate charges by church-wardens and organists, and warmreceptions; and sometimes I would hold the old top-hat reverently inmy hands, and a sudden gleam would come into my eyes, so that thosewatching me would say to each other, "He is thinking of thattea-fight at Rutland Gate in 1912." So I pictured the future for mytop-hat, never dreaming that in 1920 it would take the air again.

For I went into the war in order to make the world safe for democracy,which I understood to mean (and was distinctly informed so by thepress) a world safe for those of us who prefer soft hats with a dentin the middle. "The war," said the press, "has killed thetop-hat." Apparently it failed to do this, as it failed to do so manyof the things which we hoped from it. So the old veteran of 1912 daresthe sunlight again. We are arrived, and I am greeted warmly by thebride's parents. I look at the mother closely so that I shall know heragain when I come to say good-bye, and give her a smile which tellsher that I was determined to come down to this wedding although I hada good deal of work to do. I linger with the idea of pursuing thispoint, for I want them to know that they nearly missed me, but I ampushed on by the crowd behind me. The bride and bridegroom salute mecordially but show no desire for intimate gossip. A horrible feelinggoes through me that my absence would not have been commented upon bythem at any inordinate length. It would not have spoilt the honeymoon,for instance.

I move on and look at the presents. The presents are numerous andcostly. Having discovered my own I stand a little way back and listento the opinions of my neighbours upon it. On the whole the receptionis favourable. The detective, I am horrified to discover, is on theother side of the room, apparently callous as to the fate of my eggstand. I cannot help feeling that if he knew his business he would bestanding where I am standing now; or else there should be twodetectives. It is a question now whether it is safe for me to leave mypost and search for food... Now he is coming round; I can trust it tohim.

On my way to the refreshments I have met an old friend. I like to meetmy friends at weddings, but I wish I had not met this one. She hassowed the seeds of disquiet in my mind by telling me that it is notetiquette to begin to eat until the bride has cut the cake. I answer,"Then why doesn't somebody tell the bride to cut the cake?" but thebride, it seems, is busy. I wish now that I had not met my friend. Whobut a woman would know the etiquette of these things, and who but awoman would bother about it?

The bride is cutting the cake. The bridegroom has lent her his sword,or his fountain-pen, whatever is the emblem of his trade--he is astockbroker--and as she cuts, we buzz round her, hoping for one of themarzipan pieces. I wish to leave now, before I am sorry, but my friendtells me that it is not etiquette to leave until the bride andbridegroom have gone. Besides, I must drink the bride's health. Idrink her health; hers, not mine.

Time rolls on. I was wrong to have had champagne. It doesn't suit meat tea. However, for the moment life is bright enough. I have lookedat the presents and my own is still there. And I have been given abagful of confetti. The weary weeks one lives through without ahandful of anything to throw at anybody. How good to be young again. Itake up a strong position in the hall.

They come... Got him--got him! Now a long shot--got him! I feelslightly better, and begin the search for my hostess....

I have shaken hands with all the bride's aunts and all thebridegroom's aunts, and in fact all the aunts of everybody here. Eachone seems to me more like my hostess than the last. "Good-bye!"Fool--of course--there she is. "Good-Bye!"

My hat and I take the air again. A pleasant afternoon; and yetto-morrow morning I shall see things more clearly, and I shall knowthat the bridegroom has married the wrong girl. But it will be toolate then to save him.

Public Opinion

At the beginning of the last strike the papers announced that PublicOpinion was firmly opposed to dictation by a minority. Towards the endof the strike the papers said that Public Opinion was strongly infavour of a settlement which would leave neither side with a sense ofdefeat. I do not complain of either of these statements, but I havebeen wondering, as I have often wondered before, how a leader-writerdiscovers what the Public Opinion is.

When one reads about Public Opinion in the press (and one reads a gooddeal about it one way and another), it is a little difficult torealize, particularly if the printer has used capital letters, thatthis much-advertised Public Opinion is simply You and Me and theOthers. Now, since it is impossible for any man to get at the opinionsof all of us, it is necessary that he should content himself with asample half-dozen or so. But from where does he get his sample?Possibly from his own club, limited perhaps to men of his ownpolitical opinions; almost certainly from his own class. PublicOpinion in this case is simply what he thinks. Even if he takes theopinion of strangers--the waiter who serves him at lunch, thetobacconist, the policeman at the corner--the opinion may be onespecially prepared for his personal consumption, one inspired by tact,boredom, or even a sense of humour. If, for instance, the process wereto be reversed, and my tobacconist were to ask me what I thought ofthe strike, I should grunt and go out of his shop; but he would bewrong to attribute "a dour grimness" to the nation in consequence.

Nor is the investigator likely to be more correct if he judges PublicOpinion from the evidence of his eyes rather than his ears. Thus onereporter noticed on the faces of his companions in the omnibus "alook of stern determination to see this thing through." If they wereall really looking like that, it must have been an impressive sight.But it is at least possible that this distinctive look was one ofstern determination to get a more comfortable seat on the 'bus whichtook them home again.

It must be very easy (and would certainly be extremely interesting) togo about forming Public Opinion, I should like to initiate anL.F.P.O., or League for Forming Public Opinion, and not only forforming it, but for putting it, when formed, into direct action. Sucha League, even if limited to two hundred members, could by itsconcerted action exercise a very remarkable effect. Suppose we decidedto attack profiteering. We should choose our shop--a hosier's, let ussay. Beginning on Monday morning, a member of the League would go inand ask to be shown some ties. Having spent some time in lookingthrough the stock and selecting a couple, he would ask the price."Oh, but that's ridiculous," he would say. "I couldn't think ofpaying that. If I can't get them cheaper somewhere else, I'll dowithout them altogether." The shopman shrugs his shoulders and putshis ties back again. Perhaps he tells himself contemptuously that hedoesn't cater for that sort of customer. The customer goes out, andhalf an hour later the second member of the League arrives. This oneasks for collars. He is equally indignant at the price, and is equallydetermined not to wear a collar at all rather than submit to suchextortion. Half an hour later the third member comes in. He wantssocks.... The fourth member wants ties again... The fifth wantsgloves....

Now this is going on, not only all through the day, but all throughthe week, and for another week after that. Can you not imagine that,after a fortnight of it, the haberdasher begins to feel that "PublicOpinion is strongly aroused against profiteering in the hosierytrade"? Is it not possible that the loss of two hundred customers ina fortnight would make him wonder whether a lower price might notbring him in a greater profit? I think it is possible. I do not thinkhe could withstand a Public Opinion so well organized and sorelentlessly concentrated.

But such a League would have enormous power in many ways. If you wereto write to the editor of a paper complaining that So-and-So'scontributions (mine, if you like) were beneath contempt, the editorwould not be seriously concerned about it. Possibly he had a letterthe day before saying that So-and-So was beyond all other writersdelightful. But if twenty members of the League wrote every week forten weeks in succession, from two hundred different addresses, sayingthat So-and-So's articles were beneath contempt, the editor would bemore than human if he did not tell himself that So-and-So had fallenoff a little and was obviously losing his hold on the popularimagination. In a little while he would decide that it would be wiserto make a change....

Of course, the League would not attack a writer or any other publicman from sheer wilfulness, but it would probably have no difficulty inbringing down over-praised mediocrity to its proper level or in givinga helping hand to unrecognized talent. But unless its president were aman of unerring judgment and remarkable restraint, its sense of powerwould probably be too much for it, and it would lose its headaltogether. Looking round for a suitable president, I can think ofnobody but myself. And I am too busy just now.

The Honour of Your Country

We were resting after the first battle of the Somme. Naturally all thetalk in the Mess was of after-the-war. Ours was the H.Q. Mess, and Iwas the only subaltern; the youngest of us was well over thirty. Witha gravity befitting our years and (except for myself) our rank, wediscussed not only restaurants and revues, but also Reconstruction.

The Colonel's idea of Reconstruction included a large army ofconscripts. He did not call them conscripts. The fact that he hadchosen to be a soldier himself, out of all the professions open tohim, made it difficult for him to understand why a million othersshould not do the same without compulsion. At any rate, we must havethe men. The one thing the war had taught us was that we must have areal Continental army.

I asked why. "Theirs not to reason why" on parade, but in the H.Q.Mess on active service the Colonel is a fellow human being. So I askedhim why we wanted a large army after the war.

For the moment he was at a loss. Of course, he might have said"Germany," had it not been decided already that there would be noGermany after the war. He did not like to say "France," seeing thatwe were even then enjoying the hospitality of the most delightfulFrench villages. So, after a little hesitation, he said "Spain."

At least he put it like this:--

"Of course, we must have an army, a large army."

"But why?" I said again.

"How else can you--can you defend the honour of your country?"

"The Navy."

"The Navy! Pooh! The Navy isn't a weapon of attack; it's a weapon ofdefence."

"But you said `defend'."

"Attack," put in the Major oracularly, "is the best defence."

"Exactly."

I hinted at the possibilities of blockade. The Colonel was scornful."Sitting down under an insult for months and months," he called it,until you starved the enemy into surrender. He wanted something muchmore picturesque, more immediately effective than that. (Something,presumably, more like the Somme.)

"But give me an example," I said, "of what you mean by `insults'and `honour'."

Whereupon he gave me this extraordinary example of the need for alarge army.

"Well, supposing," he said, "that fifty English women in Madridwere suddenly murdered, what would you do?"

I thought for a moment, and then said that I should probably decidenot to take my wife to Madrid until things had settled down a bit.

The Adjutant laughed. But the Colonel was taking it too seriously forthat.

"Do you mean it?" he asked.

"Well, what would you do, sir?"

"Land an army in Spain," he said promptly, "and show them what itmeant to treat English women like that."

"I see. They would resist of course?"

"No doubt."

"Yes. But equally without doubt we should win in the end?"

"Certainly."

"And so re-establish England's honour."

"Quite so."

"I see. Well, sir, I really think my way is the better. To avenge thefifty murdered English women, you are going to kill (say) 100,000Spaniards who have had no connexion with the murders, and 50,000Englishmen who are even less concerned. Indirectly also you will causethe death of hundreds of guiltless Spanish women and children, besidesdestroying the happiness of thousands of English wives and mothers.Surely my way--of murdering only fifty innocents--is just as effectiveand much more humane."

"That's nonsense," said the Colonel shortly.

"And the other is war."

We were silent for a little, and then the Colonel poured himself out awhisky.

"All the same," he said, as he went back to his seat, "you haven'tanswered my question."

"What was that, sir?"

"What you would do in the case I mentioned. Seriously."

"Oh! Well, I stick to my first answer. I would do nothing--except, ofcourse, ask for an explanation and an apology. If you can apologizefor that sort of thing."

"And if they were refused?"

"Have no more official relations with Spain."

"That's all you would do?"

"Yes."

"And you think that that is consistent with the honour of a greatnation like England?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh! Well, I don't."

An indignant silence followed.

"May I ask you a question now, sir?" I said at last.

"Well?"

"Suppose this time England begins. Suppose we murder all the Spanishwomen in London first. What are you going to do--as Spanish Premier?"

"Er--I don't quite----"

"Are you going to order the Spanish Fleet to sail for the mouth ofthe Thames, and hurl itself upon the British fleet?"

"Of course not, She has no fleet."

"Then do you agree with the--er Spanish Colonel, who goes aboutsaying that Spain's honour will never be safe until she has a fleet asbig as England's?"

"That's ridiculous. They couldn't possibly."

"Then what could Spain do in the circumstances?"

"Well, she--er--she could--er--protest."

"And would that be consistent with the honour of a small nation likeSpain?"

"In the circumstances," said the Colonel unwillingly, "er--yes."

"So that what it comes to is this. Honour only demands that youshould attack the other man if you are much bigger than he is. When aman insults my wife, I look him carefully over; if he is a stoneheavier than I, then I satisfy my honour by a mild protest. But if heonly has one leg, and is three stone lighter, honour demands that Ishould jump on him."

"We're talking of nations," said the Colonel gruffly, "not of men,It's a question of prestige."

"Which would be increased by a victory over Spain?"

The Major began to get nervous. After all, I was only a subaltern. Hetried to cool the atmosphere a little.

"I don't know why poor old Spain should be dragged into it likethis," he said, with a laugh. "I had a very jolly time in Madridyears ago."

"O, I only gave Spain as an example," said the Colonel casually.

"It might just as well have been Switzerland?" I suggested.

There was silence for a little.

"Talking of Switzerland----" I said, as I knocked out my pipe.

"Oh, go on," said the Colonel, with a good-humoured shrug. "I'vebrought this on myself."

"Well, sir, what I was wondering was--What would happen to the honourof England if fifty English women were murdered at Interlaken?"

The Colonel was silent.

"However large an army we had----" I went on.

The Colonel struck a match.

"It's a funny thing, honour," I said. "And prestige."

The Colonel pulled at his pipe.

"Just fancy," I murmured, "the Swiss can do what they like toBritish subjects in Switzerland, and we can't get at them. YetEngland's honour does not suffer, the world is no worse a place tolive in, and one can spend quite a safe holiday at Interlaken."

"I remember being there in '94," began the Major hastily....

A Village Celebration

Although our village is a very small one, we had fifteen men servingin the Forces before the war was over. Fortunately, as the Vicar wellsaid, "we were wonderfully blessed in that none of us was called uponto make the great sacrifice." Indeed, with the exception of CharlieRudd, of the Army Service Corps, who was called upon to be kicked by ahorse, the village did not even suffer any casualties. Our rejoicingsat the conclusion of Peace were whole-hearted.

Naturally, when we met to discuss the best way in which to giveexpression to our joy, our first thoughts were with our returnedheroes. Miss Travers, who plays the organ with considerable expressionon Sundays, suggested that a drinking fountain erected on the villagegreen would be a pleasing memorial of their valour, if suitablyinscribed. For instance, it might say, "In gratitude to our bravedefenders who leaped to answer their country's call," followed bytheir names. Embury, the cobbler, who is always a wet blanket on theseoccasions, asked if "leaping" was the exact word for a young fellowwho got into khaki in 1918, and then only in answer to his country'spolice. The meeting was more lively after this, and Mr. Bates, of HillFarm, had to be personally assured by the Vicar that for his part hequite understood how it was that young Robert Bates had been unable toleave the farm before, and he was sure that our good friend Emburymeant nothing personal by his, if he might say so, perhaps somewhatuntimely observation. He would suggest himself that some such phraseas "who gallantly answered" would be more in keeping with MissTravers' beautiful idea. He would venture to put it to the meetingthat the inscription should be amended in this sense.

Mr. Clayton, the grocer and draper, interrupted to say that they weregetting on too fast. Supposing they agreed upon a drinking fountain,who was going to do it? Was it going to be done in the village, orwere they going to get sculptors and architects and such-like peoplefrom London? And if so The Vicar caught the eye of MissTravers, and signalled to her to proceed; whereupon she explainedthat, as she had already told the Vicar in private, her nephew wasstudying art in London, and she was sure he would be only too glad toget Augustus James or one of those Academy artists to think ofsomething really beautiful.

At this moment Embury said that he would like to ask two questions.First question--In what order were the names of our gallant defendersto be inscribed? The Vicar said that, speaking entirely withoutpreparation and on the spur of the moment, he would imagine that analphabetical order would be the most satisfactory. There was a general"Hear, hear," led by the Squire, who thus made his firstcontribution to the debate. "That's what I thought," said Embury."Well, then, second question--What's coming out of the fountain?"The Vicar, a little surprised, said that presumably, my dear Embury,the fountain would give forth water. "Ah!" said Embury with greatsignificance, and sat down.

Our village is a little slow at getting on to things; "leaping" isnot the exact word for our movements at any time, either of brain orbody. It is not surprising, therefore, that even Bates failed torealize for a moment that his son's name was to have precedence on awater-fountain. But when once he realized it, he refused to bepacified by the cobbler's explanation that he had only said "Ah!"Let those who had anything to say, he observed, speak out openly, andthen we should know where we were. Embury's answer, that one couldgenerally guess where some people were, and not be far wrong, wasdrowned in the ecclesiastical applause which greeted the rising of theSquire.

The Squire said that he--er--hadn't--er--intended--er--to sayanything. But he thought--er--if he might--er--intervene--to--er--saysomething on the matter of--er--a matter which--er--well, they allknew what it was--in short--er--money. Because until they knew howthey--er--stood, it was obvious that--it was obvious--quiteobvious--well it was a question of how they stood. Whereupon he satdown.

The Vicar said that as had often happened before, the soundcommon-sense of Sir John had saved them from undue rashness andprecipitancy. They were getting on a little too fast. Their valuedfriend Miss Travers had made what he was not ashamed to call asuggestion both rare and beautiful, but alas! in these prosaic moderndays the sordid question of pounds, shillings and pence could not bewholly disregarded. How much money would they have?

Everybody looked at Sir John. There was an awkward silence, in whichthe Squire joined....

Amid pushings and whisperings from his corner of the room, CharlieRudd said that he would just like to say a few words for the boys, ifall were willing. The Vicar said that certainly, certainly he might,my dear Rudd. So Charlie said that he would just like to say that withall respect to Miss Travers, who was a real lady, and many was thepacket of fags he'd had from her out there, and all the other boyscould say the same, and if some of them joined up sooner than others,well perhaps they did, but they all tried to do their bit, just likethose who stayed at home, and they'd thrashed Jerry, and glad of it,fountains or no fountains, and pleased to be back again and see themall, just the same as ever, Mr. Bates and Mr. Embury and all of them,which was all he wanted to say, and the other boys would say the same,hoping no offence was meant, and that was all he wanted to say.

When the applause had died down, Mr. Clayton said that, in hisopinion, as he had said before, they were getting on too fast. Didthey want a fountain, that was the question. Who wanted it? The Vicarreplied that it would be a beautiful memento for their children of thestirring times through which their country had passed. Embury asked ifMr. Bates' child wanted a memento of----"This is a general question,my dear Embury," said the Vicar.

There rose slowly to his feet the landlord of the Dog and Duck.Celebrations, he said. We were celebrating this here peace. Now, asman to man, what did celebrations mean? He asked any of them. What didit mean? Celebrations meant celebrating, and celebrating meant sittingdown hearty-like, sitting down like Englishmen and--and celebrating.First, find how much money they'd got, same as Sir John said; that wasright and proper. Then if so be as they wanted to leave the rest tohim, well he'd be proud to do his best for them. They knew him. Dofair by him and he'd do fair by them. Soon as he knew how much moneythey'd got, and how many were going to sit down, then he could get towork. That was all _he'd_ got to say about celebrations.

The enthusiasm was tremendous. Rut the Vicar looked anxious, andwhispered to the Squire. The Squire shrugged his shoulders andmurmured something, and the Vicar rose. They would be all glad tohear, he said, glad but not surprised, that with his customarygenerosity the Squire had decided to throw open his own beautifulgardens and pleasure-grounds to them on Peace Day and to take upon hisown shoulders the burden of entertaining them. He would suggest thatthey now give Sir John three hearty cheers. This was done, and theproceedings closed.

A Train of Thought

On the same day I saw two unsettling announcements in the papers. Thefirst said simply, underneath a suitable photograph, that the ski-ingseason was now in full swing in Switzerland; the second explainedelaborately why it cost more to go from London to the Riviera and backthan from the Riviera to London and back. Both announcements unsettledme considerably. They would upset anybody for whom the umbrella seasonin London was just opening, and who was wondering what was the cost ofa return ticket to Manchester.

At first I amused myself with trying to decide whether I should preferit to be the Riviera or Switzerland this Christmas. Switzerland won;not because it is more invigorating, but because I had just discovereda woollen helmet and a pair of ski-ing boots, relics of an earliervisit. I am thus equipped for Switzerland already, whereas for theRiviera I should want several new suits. One of the chief beauties ofSwitzerland (other than the mountains) is that it is so uncritical ofthe visitor's wardrobe. So long as he has a black coat for theevenings, it demands nothing more. In the day-time he may fall aboutin whatever he pleases. Indeed, it is almost an economy to go therenow and work off some of one's moth-collecting khaki on it. The sockswhich are impossible with our civilian clothes could renew their youthas the middle pair of three, inside a pair of ski-ing boots.

Yet to whichever I went this year, Switzerland or the Riviera, I thinkit would be money wasted. I am one of those obvious people who detestan uncomfortable railway journey, and the journey this year willcertainly be uncomfortable. But I am something more than this; I amone of those uncommon people who enjoy a comfortable railway journey.I mean that I enjoy it as an entertainment in itself, not only as arelief from the hair-shirts of previous journeys. I would much soonergo by _wagonlit_ from Calais to Monte Carlo in twenty hours, than bymagic carpet in twenty seconds. I am even looking forward to myjourney to Manchester, supposing that there is no great rush for theplace on my chosen day. The scenery as one approaches Manchester maynot be beautiful, but I shall be quite happy in my corner facing theengine.

Nowhere can I think so happily as in a train. I am not inspired;nothing so uncomfortable as that. I am never seized with a sudden ideafor a masterpiece, nor form a sudden plan for some new enterprise. Mythoughts are just pleasantly reflective. I think of all the good deedsI have done, and (when these give out) of all the good deeds I amgoing to do. I look out of the window and say lazily to myself, "Howjolly to live there"; and a little farther on, "How jolly not tolive there." I see a cow, and I wonder what it is like to be a cow,and I wonder whether the cow wonders what it is to be like me; andperhaps, by this time, we have passed on to a sheep, and I wonder ifit is more fun being a sheep. My mind wanders on in a way which wouldannoy Pelman a good deal, but it wanders on quite happily, and the"clankety-clank" of the train adds a very soothing accompaniment. Sosoothing, indeed, that at any moment I can close my eyes and pass intoa pleasant state of sleep.

But this entertainment which my train provides for me is doublyentertaining if it be but the overture to greater delights. If somemagic property which the train possesses--whether it be the motion orthe clankety-clank--makes me happy even when I am only thinking abouta cow, is it any wonder that I am happy in thinking about thedelightful new life to which I am travelling? We are going to theRiviera, but I have had no time as yet in which to meditate properlyupon that delightful fact. I have been too busy saving up for it,doing work in advance for it, buying cloth for it. Between London andDover I have been worrying, perhaps, about the crossing; between Doverand Calais my worries have come to a head; but when I step into thetrain at Calais, then at last I can give myself up with a whole mindto the contemplation of the happy future. So long as the train doesnot stop, so long as nobody goes in or out of my carriage, I care nothow many hours the journey takes. I have enough happy thoughts to fillthem.

All this, as I said, is not at all Pelman's idea of success in life;one should be counting cows instead of thinking of them; althoughpresumably a train journey would seem in any case a waste of time toThe Man Who Succeeds. But to those of us to whom it is no more a wasteof time than any other pleasant form of entertainment, thetrain-service to which we have had to submit lately has been doublydistressing. The bliss of travelling from London to Manchester wastorn from us and we were given purgatory instead. Things are a littlebetter now in England; if one chooses the right day one can still comesometimes upon the old happiness. But not yet on the Continent. In thehappy days before the war the journey out was almost the best part ofSwitzerland on the Riviera. I must wait until those days come backagain.

Melodrama

The most characteristic thing about a melodrama is that it alwaysbegins at 7.30. The idea, no doubt, is that one is more in the moodfor this sort of entertainment after a high tea than after a latedinner. Plain living leads to plain thinking, and a solid foundationof eggs and potted meat leaves no room for appreciation of the finershades of conduct; Right is obviously Right, and Wrong is Wrong. Or itmay be also that the management wishes to allow us time for recoveryafterwards from the emotions of the evening; the play ends at 10.30,so that we can build up the ravaged tissues again with a heartysupper. But whatever the reason for the early start, the result is thesame. We arrive at 7.45 to find that we alone of the whole audiencehave been left out of the secret as to why Lord Algernon is to bepushed off the pier.

For melodrama, unlike the more fashionable comedy, gets to grips atonce. It is well understood by every dramatist that a late-diningaudience needs several minutes of dialogue before it recovers from itsbewilderment at finding itself in a theatre at all. Even the expedientof printing the names of the characters on the programme in the orderin which they appear, and of letting them address each other franklyby name as soon as they come on the stage, fails to dispel the mists.The stalls still wear that vague, flustered look, as if they hadexpected a concert or a prize-fight and have just remembered that theconcert, of course, is to-morrow. For this reason a wise dramatistkeeps back his story until the brain of the more expensive seatsbegins to clear, and he is careful not to waste his jokes on the firstfive pages of his dialogue.

But melodrama plays to cheap seats, and the purchaser of the cheapseat has come there to have his money's worth. Directly the curtaingoes up he is ready to collaborate. It is perfectly safe for theVillain to come on at once and reveal his dastardly plans; theaudience is alert for his confidences.

"Curse that young cub, Dick Vereker, what ill-fortune has sent himacross my path? Already he has established himself in the affectionsof Lady Alicia, and if she consents to wed him my plans are foiled.Fortunately she does not know as yet that, by the will of her lateUncle Gregory, the ironmaster, two million pounds are settled upon theman who wins her hand. With two million pounds I could pay back mybetting losses and prevent myself from being turned out of theConstitutional Club. And now to put the marked ace of spades in youngVereker's coat-tail pocket. Ha!"

No doubt the audience is the more ready to assimilate this because itknew it was coming. As soon as the Villain steps on to the stage he isobviously the Villain; one does not need to peer at one's programmeand murmur, "Who is this, dear?" It is known beforehand that theHero will be falsely accused, and that not until the last act will heand his true love come together again. All that we are waiting to betold is whether it is to be a marked card, a forged cheque, or abloodstain this time; and (if, as is probable, the Heroine is forcedinto a marriage with the Villain) whether the Villain's first wife,whom he had deserted, will turn up during the ceremony or immediatelyafterwards. For the whole charm of a melodrama is that it is inessentials just like every other melodrama that has gone before. Theauthor may indulge his own fancies to the extent of calling theVillain Jasper or Eustace, of letting the Hero be ruined on thebattle-field or the Stock Exchange, but we are keeping an eye on himto see that he plays no tricks with our national drama. It is our playas well as his, and we have laid down the rules for it. Let the authorstick to them.

It is strange how unconvincing the Hero is to his fellows on thestage, and how very convincing to us. That ringing voice, thosegleaming eyes--how is it that none of his companions seems able torecognize Innocence when it is shining forth so obviously? "I feelthat I never want to see your face again," says the Heroine, when thediamond necklace is found in his hat-box, and we feel that she hasnever really seen it at all yet. "Good Heavens, madam," we long tocry, "have you never been to a melodrama that you can be so deceived?Look again! Is it not the face of the Falsely Accused?" But probablyshe has not been to a melodrama. She moves in the best society, andthe thought of a high tea at 6.30 would appal her.

But let me confess that we in the audience are carried away sometimesby that ringing voice, those gleaming eyes. He has us, this Hero, inthe hollow of his hand (to borrow a phrase from the Villain). When thelimelight is playing round his brow, and he stands in the centre ofthe stage with clenched fists, oh! then he has us. "What! Betray myaged mother for filthy gold!" he cries, looking at us scornfully asif it was our suggestion. "Never, while yet breath remains in mybody!" What a cheer we give him then; a cheer which seems to implythat, having often betrayed our own mothers for half a crown or so, weare able to realize the heroic nature of his abstention on thisoccasion. For in the presence of the Hero we lose our sense of values.If he were to scorn an offer to sell his father for vivisectionalpurposes, we should applaud enthusiastically his altruism.

But it is only the Hero who wins our cheers, only the Villain who winsour hisses. The minor characters are necessary, but we are not greatlyinterested in them. The Villain must have a confederate to whom he canreveal his wicked thoughts when he is tired of soliloquizing; the Heromust have friends who can tell each other all those things which amodest man cannot say for himself; there must be characters of lowerbirth, competent to relieve the tension by sitting down on their hatsor pulling chairs from beneath their acquaintances. We could not dowithout them, but we do not give them our hearts. Even the Heroineleaves us calm. However beautiful she be, she is not more than theHero deserves. It is the Hero whom we have come out to see, and it ispainful to reflect that in a little while he will he struggling to geton the 'bus for Walham Green, and be pushed off again just like therest of us.

A Lost Masterpiece

The short essay on "The Improbability of the Infinite" which I wasplanning for you yesterday will now never be written. Last night mybrain was crammed with lofty thoughts on the subject--and for thatmatter, on every other subject. My mind was never so fertile. Tenthousand words on any theme from Tin-tacks to Tomatoes would have beeneasy to me. That was last night. This morning I have only one word inmy brain, and I cannot get rid of it. The word is "Teralbay."

Teralbay is not a word which one uses much in ordinary life. Rearrangethe letters, however, and it becomes such a word. A friend--no, I cancall him a friend no longer--a person gave me this collection ofletters as I was going to bed and challenged me to make a proper wordof it. He added that Lord Melbourne--this, he alleged, is a well-knownhistorical fact--Lord Melbourne had given this word to Queen Victoriaonce, and it had kept her awake the whole night. After this, one couldnot be so disloyal as to solve it at once. For two hours or so,therefore, I merely toyed with it. Whenever I seemed to be gettingwarm I hurriedly thought of something else. This quixotic loyalty hasbeen the undoing of me; my chances of a solution have slipped by, andI am beginning to fear that they will never return. While this is thecase, the only word I can write about is Teralbay.

Teralbay--what does it make? There are two ways of solving a problemof this sort. The first is to waggle your eyes and see what you get.If you do this, words like "alterably" and "laboratory" emerge,which a little thought shows you to be wrong. You may then waggle youreyes again, look at it upside down or sideways, or stalk it carefullyfrom the southwest and plunge upon it suddenly when it is not readyfor you. In this way it may be surprised into giving up its secret.But if you find that it cannot be captured by strategy or assault,then there is only one way of taking it. It must be starved intosurrender. This will take a long time, but victory is certain.

There are eight letters in Teralbay and two of them are the same, sothat there must be 181,440 ways of writing the letters out. This maynot be obvious to you at once; you may have thought that it was only181,439; but you may take my word for it that I am right. (Wait amoment while I work it out again.... Yes, that's it.) Well, nowsuppose that you put down a new order of letters--such as"raytable"--every six seconds, which is very easy going, and supposethat you can spare an hour a day for it; then by the 303rd day--a yearhence, if you rest on Sundays--you are bound to have reached asolution.

But perhaps this is not playing the game. This, I am sure, is not whatQueen Victoria did. And now I think of it, history does not tell uswhat she did do, beyond that she passed a sleepless night. (And thatshe still liked Melbourne afterwards--which is surprising.) Did sheever guess it? Or did Lord Melbourne have to tell her in the morning,and did she say, "Why, of _course_!" I expect so. Or did LordMelbourne say, "I'm awfully sorry, madam, but I find I put a `y' intoo many?" But no--history could not have remained silent oversuch a tragedy as that. Besides, she went on liking him.

When I die "Teralbay" will be written on my heart. While I live itshall be my telegraphic address. I shall patent a breakfast foodcalled "Teralbay"; I shall say "Teralbay!" when I miss a 2-ft.putt; the Teralbay carnation will catch your eye at the Temple show. Ishall write anonymous letters over the name. "Fly at once; all isdiscovered--Teralbay." Yes, that would look rather well.

I wish I knew more about Lord Melbourne. What sort of words did hethink of? The thing couldn't he "aeroplane" or "telephone" or"googly," because these weren't invented in his time. That gives usthree words less. Nor, probably, would it be anything to eat; a PrimeMinister would hardly discuss such subjects with his Sovereign. I haveno doubt that after hours of immense labour you will triumphantlysuggest "rateably." I suggested that myself, but it is wrong. Thereis no such word in the dictionary. The same objection applies to"bat-early"--it ought to mean something, but it doesn't.

So I hand the word over to you. Please do not send the solution to me,for by the time you read this I shall either have found it out or elseI shall be in a nursing home. In either case it will be of no use tome. Send it to the Postmaster-General or one of the Geddeses or MaryPickford. You will want to get it off your mind.

As for myself I shall write to my fr----, to the person who first said"Teralbay" to me, and ask him to make something of "sabet" and"donureb." When he has worked out the corrections--which, in case hegets the wrong ones, I may tell him here are "beast" and"bounder"--I shall search the dictionary for some long word like"intellectual." I shall alter the order of the letters and throw ina couple of "g's" and a "k". And then I shall tell them to keep aspare bed for him in my nursing home.

Well, I have got "Teralbay" a little off my mind. I feel better ablenow to think of other things. Indeed, I might almost begin my famousessay on "The Improbability of the Infinite." It would be a pity forthe country to lose such a masterpiece--she has had quite enoughtrouble already what with one thing and another. For my view of theInfinite is this: that although beyond the Finite, or, as one mightsay, the Commensurate, there may or may not be a----

Just a moment. I think I have it now. T--R--A----No....

A Hint for Next Christmas

There has been some talk lately of the standardization of golf balls,but a more urgent reform is the standardization of Christmas presents.It is no good putting this matter off; let us take it in hand now, sothat we shall be in time for next Christmas.

My crusade is on behalf of those who spend their Christmas away fromhome. Last year I returned (with great difficulty) from such anadventure and I am more convinced than ever that Christmas presentsshould conform to a certain standard of size. My own little offeringswere thoughtfully chosen. A match-box, a lace handkerchief or two, acigarette-holder, a pencil and note-book, _Gems from Wilcox_, and soon; such gifts not only bring pleasure (let us hope) to the recipient,but take up a negligible amount of room in one's bag, and add hardlyanything to the weight of it. Of course, if your fellow-visitor saysto you, "How sweet of you to give me such a darling littlehandkerchief--it's just what I wanted--how ever did you think of it?"you do not reply, "Well, it was a choice between that and ahundredweight of coal, and I'll give you two guesses why I chose thehandkerchief." No; you smile modestly and say, "As soon as I saw it,I felt somehow that it was yours"; after which you are almost in aposition to ask your host casually where he keeps the mistletoe.

But it is almost a certainty that the presents you receive will nothave been chosen with such care. Probably the young son of the househas been going in for carpentry lately, and in return for your tie-pinhe gives you a wardrobe of his own manufacture. You thank himheartily, you praise its figure, but all the time you are wishing thatit had chosen some other occasion. Your host gives you a statuette ora large engraving; somebody else turns up with a large brasscandle-stick. It is all very gratifying, but you have got to get backto London somehow, and, thankful though you are not to have receivedthe boar-hound or parrot-in-cage which seemed at one time to bethreatening, you cannot help wishing that the limits of size for aChristmas present had been decreed by some authority who was familiarwith the look of your dressing-case.

Obviously, too, there should be a standard value for a certain type ofChristmas present. One may give what one will to one's own family orparticular friends; that is all right. But in a Christmas house-partythere is a pleasant interchange of parcels, of which the string andthe brown paper and the kindly thought are the really importantingredients, and the gift inside is nothing more than an excuse forthese things. It is embarrassing for you if Jones has apologized forhis brown paper with a hundred cigars, and you have only excusedyourself with twenty-five cigarettes; perhaps still more embarrassingif it is you who have lost so heavily on the exchange. Anunderstanding that the contents were to be worth five shillingsexactly would avoid this embarassment.

And now I am reminded of the ingenuity of a friend of mine, William byname, who arrived at a large country house for Christmas without anypresent in his bag. He had expected neither to give nor to receiveanything, but to his horror he discovered on the 24th that everybodywas preparing a Christmas present for him, and that it was taken forgranted that he would require a little privacy and brown paper onChristmas Eve for the purpose of addressing his own offerings toothers. He had wild thoughts of telegraphing to London for somethingto be sent down, and spoke to other members of the house-party inorder to discover what sort of presents would be suitable.

"What are you giving our host P" he asked one of them.

"Mary and I are giving him a book," said John, referring to hiswife.

William then approached the youngest son of the house, and discoveredthat he and his next brother Dick were sharing in this, that, and theother. When he had heard this, William retired to his room and thoughtprofoundly. He was the first down to breakfast on Christmas morning.All the places at the table were piled high with presents. He lookedat John's place. The top parcel said, "To John and Mary fromCharles." William took out his fountain-pen and added a couple ofwords to the inscription. It then read, "To John and Mary fromCharles and William," and in William's opinion looked just aseffective as before. He moved on to the next place. "To Angela fromFather," said the top parcel. "And William," wrote William. At hishostess' place he hesitated for a moment. The first present there wasfor "Darling Mother, from her loving children." It did not seem thatan "and William" was quite suitable. But his hostess was not to bedeprived of William's kindly thought; twenty seconds later thehandkerchiefs "from John and Mary and William" expressed all thenice things which he was feeling for her. He passed on to the nextplace....

It is, of course, impossible to thank every donor of a joint gift; onesimply thanks the first person whose eye one happens to catch.Sometimes William's eye was caught, sometimes not. But he was sparedall embarrassment; and I can recommend his solution of the problemwith perfect confidence to those who may be in a similar predicamentnext Christmas.

There is a minor sort of Christmas present about which also a fewwords must be said; I refer to the Christmas card.

The Christmas card habit is a very pleasant one, but it, too, needs tobe disciplined. I doubt if many people understand its proper function.This is partly the result of our bringing up; as children we wereallowed (quite rightly) to run wild in the Christmas card shop, withone of two results. Either we still run wild, or else the reaction hasset in and we avoid the Christmas card shop altogether. We convey ourprinted wishes for a happy Christmas to everybody or to nobody. Thisis a mistake. In our middle-age we should discriminate.

The child does not need to discriminate. It has two shillings in thehand and about twenty-four relations. Even in my time two shillingsdid not go far among twenty-four people. But though presents were outof the question, one could get twenty-four really beautiful Christmascards for the money, and if some of them were ha'penny ones, then onecould afford real snow on a threepenny one for the most importantuncle, meaning by "most important," perhaps (but I have forgottennow), the one most likely to be generous in return. Of the fun ofchoosing those twenty-four cards I need not now speak, nor of the bestmethod of seeing to it that somebody else paid for the necessarytwenty-four stamps. But certainly one took more trouble in suiting thetastes of those who were to receive the cards than the richest andmost leisured grown-up would take in selecting a diamond necklace forhis wife's stocking or motor-cars for his sons-in-law. It was not onlya question of snow, but also of the words in which the old, old wishwas expressed. If the aunt who was known to be fond of poetry did notget something suitable from Eliza Cook, one might regard her Christmasas ruined. How could one grudge the trouble necessary to make herChristmas really happy for her? One might even explore the fourpennybox.

But in middle-age--by which I mean anything over twenty and underninety--one knows too many people. One cannot give them a Christmascard each; there is not enough powdered glass to go round. One has todiscriminate, and the way in which most of us discriminate is eitherto send no cards to anybody or else to send them to the first twentyor fifty or hundred of our friends (according to our income andenergy) whose names come into our minds. Such cards are meaningless;but if we sent our Christmas cards to the right people, we could makethe simple words upon them mean something very much more than a merewish that the recipient's Christmas shall be "merry" (which it willbe anyhow, if he likes merriness) and his New Year "bright" (which,let us hope, it will not be).

"A merry Christmas," with an old church in the background and arobin in the foreground, surrounded by a wreath of holly-leaves. Itmight mean so much. What I feel that it ought to mean is somethinglike this:--

"You live at Potters Bar and I live at Petersham. Of course, if wedid happen to meet at the Marble Arch one day, it would be awfullyjolly, and we could go and have lunch together somewhere, and talkabout old times. But our lives have drifted apart since those olddays. It is partly the fault of the train-service, no doubt. Glad as Ishould be to see you, I don't like to ask you to come all the way toPetersham to dinner, and if you asked me to Potters Bar--well, Ishould come, but it would be something of a struggle, and I thank youfor not asking me. Besides, we have made different friends now, andour tastes are different. After we had talked about the old days, Idoubt if we should have much to say to each other. Each of us wouldthink the other a bit of a bore, and our wives would wonder why we hadever been friends at Liverpool. But don't think I have forgotten you.I just send this card to let you know that I am still alive, still atthe same address, and that I still remember you. No need, if we everdo meet, or if we ever want each other's help, to begin by saying: `Isuppose you have quite forgotten those old days at Liverpool.' We haveneither of us forgotten; and so let us send to each other, once ayear, a sign that we have not forgotten, and that once upon a time wewere friends. 'A merry Christmas to you.'"

That is what a Christmas card should say. It is absurd to say this toa man or woman whom one is perpetually ringing up on the telephone; tosomebody whom one met last week or with whom one is dining the weekafter; to a man whom one may run across at the club on almost any day,or a woman whom one knows to shop daily at the same stores as oneself.It is absurd to say it to a correspondent to whom one often writes.Let us reserve our cards for the old friends who have dropped out ofour lives, and let them reserve their cards for us.

But, of course, we must have kept their addresses; otherwise we haveto print our cards publicly--as I am doing now. "Old friends willplease accept this, the only intimation."

The Future

The recent decision that, if a fortune-teller honestly believes whatshe is saying, she is not defrauding her client, may be good law, butit does not sound like good sense. To a layman like myself it wouldseem more sensible to say that, if the client honestly believes whatthe fortune-teller is saying, then the client is not being defrauded.

For instance, a fortune-teller may inform you, having pocketed yourtwo guineas, that a rich uncle in Australia is going to leave you amillion pounds next year. She doesn't promise you the million poundsherself; obviously that is coming to you anyhow, fortune-teller or nofortune-teller. There is no suggestion on her part that she isarranging your future for you. All that she promises to do for twoguineas is to give you a little advance information. She tells youthat you are coming into a million pounds next year, and if youbelieve it, I should say that it was well worth the money. You have ayear's happiness (if that sort of thing makes you happy), a year inwhich to tell yourself in every trouble, "Never mind, there's a goodtime coming"; a year in which to make glorious plans for the future,to build castles in the air, or (if your taste is not for castles)country cottages and Mayfair flats. And all this for two guineas; itis amazingly cheap.